


Knotwork

by Archangel_Beth



Category: In Nomine
Genre: Bondage, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Submission, does this even work?, fantasy rope-play, ropeplay, who cares it's just a fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel_Beth/pseuds/Archangel_Beth
Summary: Pulled from my friendslocked archives. This is not only not worksafe, this is highly explicitsmut, even and unto "pr0n." Consensual, het, bondage, female sub, very light "torture," and not in any of my continuities hitherto established. Oh, right, and it's IN fanfic smut. (EDIT: But I don't think you need to appreciate IN much for most of it. It's simply That Smutty.)I believe one term for this fic would be "Plot? What plot?"Please be 18 or older to read this fic. If you are not, then on your own head be it.





	Knotwork

* * *

It is his usual visit. He lets himself into the apartment, his cloak rustling around him. The hood puts his face in shadow, but he can see well enough, for he has practice with this.

The woman is at her desk, writing, but when the door clicks closed, she stands up. Her eyes widen, and she breathes, "Sir!"

He smiles at her, just a little, knowing that it looks quite good on his thin lips and that it is nearly all of him that she can see. Narrow nose, lips, pointed chin... The rest hidden by the black, hooded cloak. After a moment to hold the pose, he moves a hand, the cloak's fabric falling away as he points to her bedroom.

She is very nearly clumsy in her haste to comply. He follows more slowly, and by the time he is there, she has pulled the _special_ briefcase from beneath her bed. It's locked, but it will open to his hand. She puts it on the tall-mattressed bed, still on her knees, and he winds his thin, long-fingered hand into her hair -- tugging her head back so that she looks at him upside down. (His eyes are still in shadow, but she will see their gleam now.) He states the obvious. "You're still dressed."

As she scrambles to rectify this, he picks up the briefcase and moves it to the empty bedside table. (It's not the first time, nor even the second. Only one bedside table holds a lamp, an alarm clock, the various knickknacks of life.) He opens it, and takes some things out to put in his pockets or loop on the belt he has under the cloak. Lastly, he takes a handful of seemingly-tangled cords and straps, leather and nylon, and turns.

His timing is perfect. The woman is just now naked, and he holds the tangle (black, all black, with his long fingers a pale cage around the central mass). "Get on the bed," he says, and she does so, on her knees and facing him. Her own fingers catch at each other, below her navel.

He pauses for a moment, until she can remember the phrase of consent. "Thy... thy rod and thy staff comfort me," she whispers, and blushes -- or perhaps flushes, with eagerness more than embarassment.

He drops the straps and cords on the sheets, all save one. The nylon cord has been knotted and knotted and knotted again, all in one place. He puts a pointed finger on her chin and guides it down, opening her mouth. She accepts the knot upon her tongue, with eagerness showing plain in her breathing.

He winds the rest of this cord behind her head, gives the ends a twist to link them there, and continues back into her mouth again. Then he loops the ends beneath her jaw (another twist) and up over her head, tying her mouth shut upon the knot within. Another twist, and back down. Another twist, and he can run the ends under her ears, between the first two strands that go behind her head, and into a holding knot.

Despite the gag, she makes a quiet noise when his hands drop to her breasts. He trails his fingertips against her skin, barely touching, and chuckles at her whimper of protest. For this, he considers between leather and nylon, and finally chooses the latter. He knows her measurements, and this time he works knots at certain spaces in the cord before he even touches her with it. Her eyes have no true fear in them, but are wide with an anticipating wariness.

He presses her backwards, moving her hands so that they are flat on the bed to stabilize her while he works. The first length goes a bit below her breasts, around her ribs. Behind her, he twists it, and brings it back around. Another twist in front, and back again, each piece lying flat against her skin where he can make it do so. This time he loops the strands up her back, to come over her shoulder and cross between her breasts -- and now he works carefully, tucking the loop of one end into the rib-length as he concentrates on the other end. The knotted pieces go beneath her breast, and he lays the rest over the top, a waiting noose. Gravity does not work for him now, and he considers the options for a moment as he bends over her. (She considers them too. He can tell from her breathing, and the way she watches his mouth.)

It would be too soon to taste her. He gathers up the flesh of her breast with one long-fingered hand, squeezing and tugging with what would be pain if he did not work slowly. She holds her breath instinctively as he uses his other hand to tighten the noose around the base of her breast, so that when he releases his grasp... the cord does not. The knots beneath tilt her breast and nipple up a little, a subtle effect that he decides he will accentuate in some other visit.

The process is repeated for the other side, and then he crosses the cords between her breasts again, behind her back again, and this time a cross lower on her spine, looping between her thighs (to either side of the obvious juncture) and up again to a holding knot.

Next are her arms. He selects another length of black cord and moves behind her -- tapping her cheek in reproof when she tries to look. There are so many different things he could do here, and he knows she is thinking of at least three of them... If only because he has already used those before.

This one is something new. He strings the cord around her upper arms, each loop gently denting her flesh, until the elbows. Those, he ties crossed behind her back, and takes another pair of cords to finish. This one, down from her right arm and wrist (with a twist around the palm, so she has something to grab hold of) to her left ankle. That one, down from her left arm and wrist (and the same twist) to her right ankle. He draws them up so that she is a little off-balance and arched, and ties a temporary knot.

It is a thinner, slicker cord he picks to go around her waist in several tight winds, securing it so it will not slip, incorporating a few loops into its length so that he can use them later. And finally, he does, threading the ends through the loops in back and drawing them up between her legs. As she tries to watch, he ties a knot and is rewarded with perfect placement -- the two strands between her buttocks, between her short-shaven labia, and the smooth knot exactly placed where the cloak of the labia meet in their own hood. The ends of the cord go up, through other loops in front, and then he anchors their knots; tight, to hold that knot in that one exquisitely chosen spot, but easy for him to slip them free if he chooses.

He has plans for that later.

The leather straps he winds around her legs are really for no more than show (the thin black lines crisscrossing against pale skin) and sensation (denting that flesh gently, holding her even after his hands have moved on), but he leaves himself careful loops and isolated slack-points anyway, in case he is struck by inspiration.

Now he must move her, for she can only move herself in limited ways. He is, fortunately, quite strong enough to lay her on her front and it's even graceful with her cooperating. He puts loops around her ankles, separated by a small, small length of cord so that they are not exactly crossed in any way that would restrict blood flow. He takes up the slack in the cords that tied her wrists and ankles, slowly bringing her body (flexible, though not too flexible to escape this binding) into an arch.

Each movement, now, will transmit vibration and friction to that knot beneath her own body's hood of skin. Beneath his hood of fabric, he smiles whenever she gasps.

When he's satisfied with the tightness of his ties, he puts her on her back again and regards his handiwork with satisfaction. With the height of the mattress and the length of his legs, she is placed perfectly.

Nearly perfectly. Her legs...

He takes another leather strap and uses one of those un-used loops just above her knee, anchoring the strap through an equally empty loop in the cords around her waist. The tension draws her knees out, so that he can have complete access between her thighs.

Much better.

He reaches into his pocket for the final strands. Embroidery floss, of precisely the right shade of pink. He uses his thumb to stroke blood into her nipples, and then loops the floss around them, tightening the tiny nooses until her flesh matches the color of the floss. For this last touch, he tugs the strands together, against gravity that would let her nipples go slightly to either side, as she lies on her back, instead of perfectly straight, in the order he desires. He fastens the ends with a clip. A small bell on the end shivers its chime when she breathes.

Now, it is time to bend over and touch each swollen nipple with his tongue. His knots are tight enough that he need not fear dislodging them with normal use, even there. She makes noises of relief and urgency as he tastes her nipples and breasts, as he sucks there, or as he sucks a bit harder and leaves light bruises on the captured paleness of her bosom.

By the time he cups her labia in one hand, he can feel dampness that has worked past the two cords that cover her.

By the time he slides a finger between those cords (and there is enough slack, oh yes), the cords are near to soaked.

He draws away, and smiles, knowing that she can see the shadows of his face and the gleam of his eyes beneath his hood. He takes one of the tools from beneath his belt, and shows it to her. A small, small cat-o'nine-tails, with each strand made from embroidery floss, red and black and gold (like the coral snake), intricately knotted over and over and over again until it had enough heft to sting -- if one's wrist were strong and fast enough.

His is amply strong enough, fast enough. He lays strokes on her inner thighs and belly, first. Then on her breasts, not quite on the nipples, until the anticipation and burning from the prior strokes have her trying to arch even more. He makes a note that she could be pulled even more taut, next time, and gives her the sensation she wants.

The strands of the flogger are light enough that he may even lay them carefully along her cheeks and lips. She closes her eyes, but he does not feel like blindfolding her so he can work higher up. Not when lower down will make her more sensitive. Her clitoris is hidden behind his knot, but her labia are wet targets -- and the wetness gives the flogger's floss-strands that little extra weight that slides them between, stopped only by the cords already there.

The knot is not much protection when she is writhing to avoid or attract the stinging little whip.

When he judges that she is warm enough, and his wrist tired enough, he sets the tool to one side. "My rod and my staff," he murmurs. "Which do you want?"

She moans, of course, unable to speak clearly and unwilling to even try.

"The rod?" he teases, tracing patterns over her navel. She pauses, then shakes her head.

He lightly pinches a nipple, rolling it in his fingers. "The staff?"

She nods, flushing even more.

He chuckles, and moves his hand back down. Oh, yes, she is damp indeed. Still, he reaches to the bedside table's drawer and takes out a vial of oil. (There are others in there as well. She is responsible for keeping those filled.) The mattress is protected by a waterproof sheet beneath the satiny fabric that she lies on, so it will only be those sheets that she washes later. He doubts that the consideration enters her mind, though, as he slowly pours it over her labia, spreading them open to ensure the cords themselves are coated in the slickness.

He slides another finger into her, and another, and then a third, moving in and out enough to send vibrations up those cords to the central knot. (Central to _her_ consciousness, in any case.) The bell at her breasts jingles with her writhing.

He uses two fingers to spread her open a bit, and the third is a channel for the last of the oil, delivered entirely within her. Ice to Eskimos, coals to Newcastle -- but the coolness of the room-temperature liquid is a momentary spot of sensation and she whimpers from it.

With oiled fingers, he pulls her closer to the edge of the bed. With oiled fingers, he opens his pants and lets her feel his staff lying heavy above the knot. When she shivers from anticipation, he moves up onto the bed himself, his cloak spreading out to cover both of them. "Is this enough staff for you?" he asks, laying it between her breasts. He cups them together, slackening the ties between the nipples (though not the nooses themselves), and moves his hips, sliding his skin against the knots and ties and her own flesh.

She makes a noise that does not even pretend to be more than need, and arches her neck against the mattress.

"Larger, you say?" he asks, and wraps a bit of cord around his base, to trap the blood.

She squeaks with alarm, feeling (with anticipation-heightened senses) how he swells against her skin. He chuckles at her, and slides down again, letting her breasts bounce back and her nipples be tugged. Yes, with his feet on the floor and his hands beneath her buttocks, she will be at exactly the right height.

For the first entry, he goes slowly, dipping his fingers within her and spreading her apart. The cords are a different sensation, a different tightness, and he is pleased with how he crafted them. Her response is equally gratifying, little cries deep in her throat.

He thrusts his staff in and out, slowly, breaking the rhythm now and then with paired swift movements. The cords between her legs are tugged and vibrated with his passage, and the knot transmits it all directly to her own knot of nerves. When she is close to climax, he slows even more, even stopping, pressing himself against her and freeing a hand to toy with her nipples and tighten the strings there a fraction more.

When he finally resumes a steady pace, she moans, and cries out as much as she can around the cords, and finally screams and spasms around him. He knows her well, and does not stop, tearing another scream and spasm from her before he lets her pant in the aftershocks that squeeze him gently inside her.

He could stop now, as he pulls his still-stiff length from her. She is almost limp within her bonds. Her eyes have a look of wanting, still, but are almost satiated. Almost.

He traces her wetness with a thumb and reaches beneath his cloak again. "My staff, yes... but you asked for both, did you not?"

Her eyes widen, and the gasp shivers the bell between her breasts. She does not know what he might have taken from the briefcase -- or what he might have brought, and taken other things from the case as diversion.

It is, in fact, the latter. He draws out a shaft that is thin at the center -- but its x-shaped cross-section is quite large enough. The flanges move in and out in gentle waves of plastic, each one textured with a faint snake-belly pattern. The base of it has two small holes.

He unscrews the base, and sets it to one side, so that the holes are now notches. More oils, he judges, are not needed, and he uses his fingers to hold the cords apart as he slides in the "rod." He positions it carefully, lining up the flanges: up and down, left and right. The largest swell of the flanges will press against her until she fancies her clitoris is squeezed between it and the knot.

The cords fit exactly into the notches, and he screws the base back on.

Then he turns the vibrator onto its lowest setting, and listens to her muffled cries. The vibration and her wriggling alone, he judges, could send her to climax after climax for _hours_ , and he almost decides to settle himself to watch this a few times.

But he has other appointments he must keep, and some duty to this woman to leave her in a state sufficient to return to her work after he is gone.

He turns her over (she makes the most _passionate_ sounds) and pulls a pillow over to place beneath her hips. Another vial of oil coats her in the rear (though there is certainly some dampness there from their prior efforts). Another coats his still-stiff length. A third starts with his fingers, until he can work two of them into her anus and pour the rest entirely within her.

If he translates her cries sufficiently, she is saying, _Oh, you wouldn't! Oh, don't (stop! please please don't stop)!_

To a certain extent, it does not matter what she might be saying. She gave her consent at the beginning. She laid her volition in his hands, and her trust in his judgment of her abilities and pleasure.

They have consent-words, not safewords. He will stop what he does only if he decides her reactions are not what he desires from her.

And what he desires is that she will be... "comforted." The rod is already in place, and now he adds a bit more oil to his staff's slickness and presses it between her buttocks. He is sensitive, himself, and can feel the ripplings of the vibrator's flanges through her inner tissues.

It is pleasing, and he curves his long-fingered hands around her hips as he pushes within her and pulls nearly free again. He knows that her breasts are feeling every knot, pressed between his work and the bed. He knows the cords transmit both the vibrator's sensations and the tremors of his passing further on.

And he knows, as she begins to shriek, close-mouthed through the gag, that she is quite capable of multiple orgasms, and will continue to be so until he decides to speed up enough to take his own satisfaction.

As he drives his Servitor to distraction and beyond, Asmodeus wonders (again) if he should arrest Andrealphus for trying a new, fetish-granting attunement on one of _his_ servants -- or if he should smile, thank him, and find some way to let Dominic know whose vessel sends a member of the Game's nobility into wet... _squees_.


End file.
